


don't read the last page

by elsaclack



Series: baby, it's cold outside [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Like PURE fluff, New Year's Day, PURE fluff and literally nothing else i promise, holiday-inspired, nothing but fluff, previously posted on tumblr, this is like a nothing pointless plotless fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: There’s dry candle wax on the floor by the window and glitter stuck to the soles of her feet; somewhere down in the lobby their friend is carrying her shoes out into a blizzard, the fruits of her expensive Polaroid camera lying forgotten on the rug. Outside the world is muted and painted white with snow, the pain and misery and heartache of the year behind them left at the 11:59 threshold the night before. They faded to nothing at the stroke of midnight, at the heart-stopping meld of their lips, at his hooded smile to the sounds of their friends celebrating all around them, at the way his whisperedwe’re getting married this yearwas nearly lost in the commotion. Not quite the blank slate of it’s predecessors - but so much better.The music ends and they keep swaying, clinging, too stubborn to let go. Their apartment is a wreck of discarded Solo cups and empty bottles and dirty dishes but he is warm and soft and he smells so good; eyes squeezed shut, fingers tangled in his shirt, to the beat of her heart her mind chantsforever.





	don't read the last page

Someone spilled candle wax on the floor last night.

It’s over by the window, the dark red just barely discernible against the darker color of the hardwood floor. 

Amy’s bare feet feel gritty against the rug - likely smashing down against the glitter she’d seen Gina’s dress shedding near the one AM mark the night before - and when her dry, heavy eyes flutter open they catch only briefly on the tiny Polaroids strewn across the coffee table and the floor on either side of it before they flutter closed again. 

Some of the Polaroids are blurry, some blown nearly white from overexposure, but in a few - just a few - they’re captured, mid-drinking, mid-talking, mid-laughter, mid-them. 

The kitchen sink is overflowing with used, dirty dishes from the night before. She has a faint, drunk-fuzzy memory of trying to rinse a few before  _someone_ urged her back into the living room.  _Later_ , he’d urged her.  _I’ll take care of it later_. 

The apartment is quiet, quieter still with the echoes of the night before still ringing in her ears, and this morning when the front door opened she’d caught a glimpse of a redhead in a shimmering glitter dress with silver stiletto heels dangling from her crooked fingers slipping out quietly into the hall outside. Quiet, quiet, aside from the whisper of their feet across the carpet and the gentle cadence of a piano drifting out of the little bluetooth speaker perched on the highest shelf of her bookcase. 

It’s cold outside - a condition that would normally leave her grumpy and belligerent this early in the morning with this little amount of sleep - but the hand on the small of her back, the chest pressed up against hers, the shoulder against which her cheek presses keeps the cold at bay. Her toes curl into the fibers of the carpet and the lowest cuffs of his flannel pajamas brush over the tops of her feet; the feathery sensation is softer than her warmest pair of socks. 

There’s another hand, one that matches the one against her back, one clutching hers and holding it close to the scant space of his chest not covered by the expanse of her shoulders, and when she turns her head and tucks her forehead into the crook of his neck his thumb sweeps out soft and slow over the back of her hand. Somewhere, in some previous life, there’s a version of him fumbling over their closeness, and another one making fun of her for her two left feet; somewhere in some previous life there’s a version of her so deeply uncomfortable with the concept of vulnerability and so hell-bent on self-preservation she never would have allowed this little excursion into intimacy to begin in the first place. She feels sorry for them.

His breath is warm and slow and rhythmic against her ear and his heartbeat is strong and steady in his chest and over the soft music she can hear the faintest echo of  _romantic-stylez_  and  _that wasn’t nothing, that was real_  and  _did you?_  and  _murmzeep_  and  _I just care about being with you_  and  _I want to change mattresses for you_  and  _I love you_  and  _I’ve always known you were gonna be my boss_  and  _will you marry me?_  And outside their window the wind is howling and the snow is falling and all of it, all the fear and the doubt and the worry and the insecurity,  _all of it_ , is flying away so fast she wonders if it was ever actually there at all. Ego-maniac captains and mob bosses and witness protection and sociopathic lieutenants and prison and their own human stupidity have all served only to make them stronger, more in love, more secure; through the encores and ovations and the misery and long limping crawls home, they’ve survived. 

He’s caressing her back, in time with the gentle movement of his thumb against her hand, and beneath his palm she flexes her fingers to feel the thin gold band she’s only just gotten used to dig into the sides of her pinky and middle fingers. The quiet exhale of laughter above her head alerts her to the fact that he’s caught onto what she’s doing; a smile curls slow and lazy across her face as she dips a little closer, the bridge of her nose brushing against his neck. His arm tightens ever-so-slightly around her, bringing her infinitesimally closer, and every fiber of her being clenches with pure, unheeded affection and love. It occurs to her on some level that every single morning for the rest of her life holds the possibility of unfolding like this one - and again, she flexes her fingers, toying with the ring. 

Her whole face still aches from all the smiling and laughing she’d done the night before but she can’t seem to stop - not now, not with them all wrapped up in each other like they are, not with the memories of his laughter and the way it rang out over the sounds of the party all night long so fresh in her mind. It’s a laugh she’s been intimately familiar with for years now, one she’d recognize anywhere in all its’ many forms and appearances. She knows the way it swells with amusement and tinkles with surprise and barks with relief; she knows the way it wilts with self-deprecation, the way it thins out in fear, the way it sharpens with anger or frustration; she knows the way it rumbles in his chest beneath her ear when she’s just a few scant moments from falling asleep, the way it tastes in her mouth when she kisses him hard and catches him off-guard. There’s a version, soft and delicate that she only hears here in their home, that she knows is reserved only for her. 

There’s dry candle wax on the floor by the window and glitter stuck to the soles of her feet; somewhere down in the lobby their friend is carrying her shoes out into a blizzard, the fruits of her expensive Polaroid camera lying forgotten on the rug. Outside the world is muted and painted white with snow, the pain and misery and heartache of the year behind them left at the 11:59 threshold the night before. They faded to nothing at the stroke of midnight, at the heart-stopping meld of their lips, at his hooded smile to the sounds of their friends celebrating all around them, at the way his whispered  _we’re getting married this year_  was nearly lost in the commotion. Not quite the blank slate of it’s predecessors - but so much better. 

The music ends and they keep swaying, clinging, too stubborn to let go. Their apartment is a wreck of discarded Solo cups and empty bottles and dirty dishes but he is warm and soft and he smells so good; eyes squeezed shut, fingers tangled in his shirt, to the beat of her heart her mind chants  _forever_. 

“Did you fall asleep?” Jake eventually, softly asks. 

Briefly, she considers not responding, but a snort of laughter escapes her before she can stop it. “No,” she murmurs, delighted at the way his hand splays wider across her back. “I can’t sleep when there are dishes in the sink.” 

It’s his turn to snort. “How could I forget,” he chuckles, and she smiles once again. “Are you hungry? I could make pancakes.” 

She pulls away. “Potato pancakes?” she asks, part hopeful, part inquisitive.

He’s already smirking, a brow quirked in amusement. “Do you think I just met you or something? It’s new year’s day, of  _course_ I got stuff for potato pancakes.”

She grins broadly and he mirrors her before ducking down and kissing her as soft and slow as the night before.

Eventually they break apart, though they linger; his forehead is still brushing against hers when her eyes finally flutter open, dazed. He kisses the end of her nose as he pulls away save for their hands - he uses his grip to pull her along toward the kitchen with him, drawing a laugh out of her throat even as she stumbles. This time next year he’ll be her husband; this time next year she’ll be his wife.  _Forever, forever, forever, forever_.

“Gina says she wants her Polaroids,” Jake murmurs over the sounds of the pancakes sizzling on the stove.

Amy glances up at him from her perch on the counter, where she’s been methodically going through the Polaroids, pulling the good ones of her and Jake and setting them aside. “‘Kay,” she says, flipping through the last four photos before straightening and restocking the main stack. “I’m keeping these,” she gestures to the smaller stack by her hip. “I think we could use them for the wedding.”

He grins, broad and bright and delighted, the way he always does when she mentions the wedding. “Yeah,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. “Our wedding needs them way more than Gina does.”

“ _Way_ more,” she agrees.

He steps toward her and swipes the photos off the counter, grinning at her all the while. The moment his gaze lands on the top photo it softens considerably, more affection than amusement. Her heart nearly skips a beat when that gaze flicks up to her face. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and this time her heart  _does_ skip a beat. “I mean, you -” he glances down at the photo in his hand, and then back up at her - as a brilliant blush scorches across her face. “Just…beautiful.”

She struggles to inhale for a long moment. And then - “yeah,” she breathes, “our kids are gonna be really  _really_ cute.”

His grin broadens to near blinding proportions; in an instant he’s in her space, their laughter loud and melding together as he drops wild kisses haphazardly across her face. “They’re gonna be the  _cutest_ kids at the whole park!” he declares, before suddenly jerking backwards. “No,” he amends, “the cutest kids in the whole  _world_.”

“They’re also gonna have the grumpiest mom in the whole world if you burn my potato pancakes.” she warns, pointedly glancing at the stovetop over his shoulder.

Something in his eyes shifts. “We’re gonna be parents someday,” he says, soft, marveling. “You’re gonna be a mom and I’m gonna be a dad and we’re gonna have kids -”

“One thing at a time, buddy,” she interrupts with a laugh, reaching up to cup his face gently.

“Right, right, wedding first -”

“No,  _potato pancakes_  first.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I like the person you become when potato pancakes are on the line.”

“That’s too bad, Peralta. You already put a ring on it, it’s too late to back out now.”

He snorts, backing toward the pancakes while shaking his head. “Nerd.”

“Freak.”

“Keep talkin’ smack and I’ll burn these on purpose.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, but makes no further comment - and five minutes later he’s perched on the counter beside her, handing her a plate full of steaming potato pancakes. He leans toward her before she can so much as lift her fork; they share a chaste and lingering kiss over their plates. “Happy wedding year,” Jake murmurs as they lean away.

“Happy wedding year,” Amy echoes, happiness welling up from her very core to fill every square inch of her body.

Five months later, the Polaroids hang interspersed with other pictures of the two of them, strung up behind the head table and along the walls of the reception space - and despite Gina’s initial annoyance at her photos being stolen, even she has to admit that they’re the perfect touch.


End file.
